Mrs Ferny
by Be3
Summary: Face it, girls, there's not much you can do if you fall into Middle Earth all alone and helpless. Rated for language, themes, and a couple swearwords. Character death in the final chapter. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Usual disclaimer applies.

* * *

She's been an Eowyn twice, and she loves the Books, and she knows just how to save Boromir and win and live happily ever after.

Right.

She does.

She fingers the strange dress she's got on, and looks at the dusty country road – empty and quiet and so long. Why do people who wake up in Middle Earth not get a map?

There's some wood in the distance, not the dark awful Wood of Fangorn, but a homely little copse, and the last leaves still cling to the branches. Rohan was all meadows, wasn't it; Rivendell was wild, and Gondor was all fields and ruined fortifications. This place is probably Hobbiton or somewhere near, and she can join the adventure at the very beginning…

… _if_ she can guess where to go.

Well. There's one way to find out.

She walks, and walks, and walks down the empty long road and plans what she will tell to whom. She doesn't have any food or water, but it's only a little thing – it's even comforting to think about, because the Fate before her is overwhelming.

The sun climbs up, and the light wind is really so nice after Earth's polluted air.

She walks for hours and smiles when she sees a town ahead of her.

The town is Bree.

* * *

There's not much to do in Bree, because the hobbits and Aragorn have already gone away – everybody talks about the Disappearing Act and the Night Raid and some are pretty rude about the whole thing.

She could try to follow them, but she isn't a Ranger – crossing the wild lands will be the end of her for sure. Even worse, she could be captured and questioned by one of the nasty spies, and then the Light Side will lose because she can't hold out under torture (she's never had to, but somehow she knows it in her heart.)

She could go to Hobbiton and prevent the horrible things there from happening. Still, she'd rather rest for a bit – Hobbiton is days away on foot. Also, who knows if all Wraiths have already left it?

(It's a good thing Westron turned out to be English, after all.)

…and then it crashes in upon her that she's alone, poor, and keeping a secret that could change the whole world's future, for good or ill.

And where do they – er – where is the outhouse?

* * *

She is a bit – a big bit – unnerved. Well, she's found the outhouse, and now she's just hungry, thirsty and very much lost.

What could she do?

She should find a job and a place to live, and maybe she could wait until the opportune moment – the War of the Ring wasn't all that long – and go help Hobbits, because Rivendell or Gondor are out of question.

Okay, what job could she choose?

It rapidly becomes clear that in Bree, there aren't a lot of options, and nobody wants a stranger After What Happened to the 'Prancing Pony'. An unskilled worker isn't welcome, too. Not surprising, really. She should just go on her way.

But weren't Hobbits, in general, distrustful of Men? There was this Border and such. They might not take her in.

And then she'd have to walk back. It's easier to stay where she is.

She should find a way to earn a living. Any way. And soon. It's better to look presentable when you want to impress your employer. What do women here do when they become so… desperate?

Well, in romances they could always marry whenever they wished – actually, for many of them it was the Staying Single that took daring.

She swears to herself that she's better than that, and it's not like she can tap a man on the shoulder and say, 'You're my husband.'

There aren't many bachelors in the provincial town of Bree even remotely eligible.

In fact, she knows of only one.

* * *

Bill Ferny hasn't got a chance. She shocks him into agreeing and after a few formalities; he bows her into his house. His friends shout outside and then leave.

It's old, and small, and drab, and there are unwashed things hanging from furniture (there's not much of it, either). Still, it's a house, and she won't starve.

'Cook,' says Ferny. 'Potatoes are in that sack.'

She knows that she mustn't look surprised by what there _is_. She mustn't use long words or let him know she can read and write. And she absolutely mustn't show any interest in politics.

She's on warpath, after all.

'I hope you're clean,' he says with a sigh. 'Water's in the well.'

'Sure I am! Why?'

'Well, I don't want to lie with a dirty wife.'

_Wife._

'You…' she stops herself just in time. 'You don't want children, do you?'

His mouth falls open.

'And just what else would I need you for?'

Children.

Oh no no no, she hasn't agreed to that. Bill Ferny will die soon, and she won't be – can't be – it's absurd!

'And what if I am…'

'Already a mother?' he asks, clearly mocking.

'No!'

'Barren?'

'No!'

'Ah. Suppose it don't matter. Unless they gave you something else?'

What can he mean by that?

* * *

'This,' he says, picking the axe easily, though tears still slide down his face and he moans with laughter, 'is an axe.'

'I know!' she snaps.

She's been running about with this thing in her arms for the whole morning. It's heavy! And sharp, too!

'That – _hic_ – is a rooster. One that I thought – _hic_ – you'd make a stew of.'

She could have tripped over the blasted bird, and cut off her own foot. Honestly.

'Yes, yes. Do it. Please.'

'You're hilarious,' he says and goes lazily to behead it. 'Don't forget to keep the feathers this time.'

* * *

She gets 'in the family way', and the family way is trouble. Midwifery is not good enough to see her through. She's got these narrow hips. Are there any doctors? Healers? Elrond?

'Bill,' she says. 'Call in someone to have a look at me.'

He leers at her, but finally she bothers him into going out and bringing a goodwife – that's all to be had here.

And since the woman is a _good_wife, she's absolutely not fond of Bill. And she doesn't understand why she's been called at all if the baby is not coming out.

'Look,' says Mrs. Ferny. 'I can see you don't like him, and I tell you, I'm not blaming you for it.'

'Hm!' says Mr. Ferny.

'_But_ I'm not a monster for marrying him, and I really _need_ some advice, so please be so _kind_ as to come _in_ and – '

She bullies the goodwife into doctoring, and it seems she might get through this.

And Bill, he stays out of her way for a week.

* * *

'Bill, do you have relatives?'

'Wha -?'

'Relatives,' she says impatiently. 'Who would be willing to take me and the kid in, were anything to happen to you.'

He waggles a finger in her face. 'Now don't be too smart, sweetheart.'

'I'm not being smart! I'm in earnest!'

'Huh,' he says and frowns. 'Guess not.'

'It's dangerous times we have now,' she says, and swallows, 'cause she has no idea who is going to win the War of the Ring this time around. 'And people don't like you much.'

He looks at her shrewdly - he often does - just a glance from under heavy lids, but it leaves her troubled and chafing.

That evening, he tells her that in any emergency she's to go to So-and-So and ask for a place. And if she's given one - he can't promise she will have it - she's got to work like she's never worked before. So it's not in her best interests, to have something happen to him.

She doesn't grumble at him, because it's probably the best he can do. Inside, she's just hollow.

To work full time.

Probably domestic service, since she knows no trade.

For a complete stranger.

With a baby on her hands.

And no man by her side, not even Bill Bloody Ferny.

It won't come to pass. It can't.

* * *

'You know,' he tells her one day. 'I used to think it mighty suspicious, you throwing yourself at me and all.' He says 'yerself', but she refuses to let her grammar down. 'Now I know better.'

She picks up a frying pan and smiles.

'…cause you're so charming, dear, you can't do no deceivin', o my flower.'

And people _talk_ about her, and she's never given them any reason to say those things, and she can't always stay home.

* * *

'What is this?' he asks, smudging the coal drawing with a careless finger.

'A design,' she says, acting indifferent. 'Some people like beautiful clothes or plates.' She stresses 'some' out of habit.

Take that, fate! She can cheat! Not in the scientific department – she's got a degree in a Literature that's never been invented in this world (actually, the folk here think her a bit dumb, seeing as she doesn't know any lore, not even nursery rhymes), no – she'll introduce them to Modern Art. And then, when she's famous, she'll found a sewing agency – maybe in Gondor, there should be more paying customers nearer the capital...

'Ugly,' he says. 'Where's my 'baccy?'

* * *

'How come you have a sore throat again?' he asks, though he sounds resigned. She just doesn't have the constitution to wash all their clothes and bedclothes and tableclothes in the cold river. At least she has bought healing herbs and a warm shawl.

'Sorry,' she sniffs. She _is_ sorry – they were going to go to the fair, the only decent entertainment in this bleak place. She might have talked him into buying a bauble, 'for the chile'.

'Don't burn all wood,' he says, and leaves.

She stays in bed; it's still early enough not to think about cooking. He's brought home a few bits and pieces, probably from the South (he forbade her to show them to anybody – as if she ever had guests!) – five big, bright beads, a piece of Oliphaunt's tusk, an embroidered kerchief.

Maybe it's all been stolen.

Maybe it's all been stolen from dead people.

She doesn't know. Her baby will have toys, and what matters where they come from? It's a good thing Bill thinks about it at all.

And anyway, if she's to live in Middle Earth, why not live as well as she can? Everybody in the Books stood to gain something from their efforts. Aragorn had to die or marry Arwen (and he wasn't that reluctant to take the throne, too). Legolas was his father's ambassador – perhaps even heir. Gimli – well, Gimli was a dwarf, she's never been quite clear on what makes them tick. Avarice? Pigheadedness? Frodo wanted to live. Boromir (oh Boromir!) wanted to be Steward.

It wasn't selfish of them, so why can't she just want to be a loyal wife and have enough for tomorrow?

...And maybe if she has seen a live Orc or a burning field or a Nazgul she'd think differently about the War, but – she hasn't. And she certainly wasn't going out to search for any of it. Not with a sore throat.

* * *

'Stop,' she whispers. 'Don't go.'

Billy is asleep at last, spread-eagled across her stomach. She can't move – both her hands are under his small body. She's afraid to miss the moment when his fever comes up again.

Nothing special, he's teething. They've been over it already.

Her husband doesn't listen. It's that evening when he goes out and doesn't return.

'Bill!'

They will find him in the morning, lying in a frozen pool of his own blood.

'Bill!'

And Mr. Butterbur will mention it in passing to the returning hobbits. A piece of local news.

'Bill!'

'Hush, woman. Don't rouse him.'

Great idea, she thinks hysterically. Would he stay if she woke Billy up? Or would he leap out into the night without even his coat on?

'Bill.'

'What do you want?'

'You.'


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I didn't think of this thing as more than a one-shot, but flattery is something I just can't ignore, and people kept 'following' it; so here's a continuation. It's going to be a collection of one-shots, updated sporadically (I cannot plot things well, sorry, guys). I know how it will end, the exact words; it isn't a happy story.

(Also, I realize Billy could not really have any of his teeth come out by the night when Bill Ferny would have died, but teething sometimes starts much earlier than that – and the more painful for it.)

* * *

Bill doesn't die.

The war ends.

Everybody's happy.

Well, everybody who's known there was a war going on. The people in their street seem rather surprised to learn about it, and not-so-secretly happy that it didn't touch their little downy nest.

Also, there are suddenly jobs available, since the un-blockaded Hobbits sorely need outsiders' help to rebuild their community in preparation for the busy season. (That's what she calls it in her mind. She used to hate winter when she was young and silly.) Still, now that she has a baby to care for, she can't just go and ask for work, that's plainly irresponsible.

That's not what most women here think. A lot of them carry their kids around with ease. She might have tried it, too, but she's still so scared for him – he's so tiny, so needy, and so sickly. It's tough, taking care of him twenty-four seven, and she cries often, but each day she loves him more and more.

Bill sometimes stops to watch them with this weird look in his eyes (he's really not great with facial expressions). Bill is not great with pretty much everything, including baby-sitting, but she's damned if she lets him do anything to their kid that can not be undone. So there.

This is going to be her world; and she plunges into it grim and collected.

Life's a bit dull, is all.

* * *

One day, when she makes time to muck out the kitchen, she looks out the window and sees Bill talking to a man she doesn't know. That's not strange; Bill never introduces her to anybody. It's his stance, the hunchline of his shoulders, the lowered head and jerking arms that make her worry.

She's missing something, and it's not the high prices of dairy products (Breelanders aren't all that charitable when Demand kicks Supply in the gut).

Something important.

Could be it _is_ the money. They've been saving the whole time, and he doesn't tell her what he will do with it – he owns the house, and it's not like they will put Billy into a posh college, because (surprise, surprise) there aren't any posh colleges lying around. Maybe he wants to buy a business? But he'd be rubbish at it, he's hardly literate. Maybe he wants to run away? Leave her and the kid and… no. Bill is a fool and a cad, but he's not that bad.

Besides, he owns the house.

Maybe he is older that she thinks (she hasn't actually asked) and already starts going senile? Oh what a laugh; illiterate cad or not, Bill Ferny won't lose clarity of mind until his last breath. He's a real cockroach.

She turns it over in her head the whole day and still draws a blank, but in the end, it's enough to know that trouble is coming. She waits for Bill to harden up and tell her – it doesn't pay to nag at him.

After the dinner, he scowls (it's nice to know she intimidates him) and asks distastefully if she has anything of value.

'Not even a Ring,' she says.

'Good,' he says. 'Gather your things. We're going away.'

'Tomorrow?' she asks stupidly, because it's dark outside and she's been meaning to buy skein and flo –

'Tonight,' he snarls, not loudly. 'Bundle the kid warm, we're goin' to walk to the gate.'

* * *

Time's up.

Hobbits have dug up Evidence against him, and the bailiff is out for his blood, which is, thankfully, cheap enough. But not even the bailiff can fool them for long.

Bill doesn't say it in so many words, but she can read his silences as well as his grunts. She doesn't pretend to know why Hobbits, of all people (or is it Peoples?) want to burn him at the stake, and neither does she ask him.

She knows he thinks she can't comprehend it yet, but trouble is, she can, she just can't accept it. They didn't have much…

They will have less…

They are running from justice…

The moon's in the clouds and all sound's muted. Bill carries their bags, and she goes after him holding Billy to herself in a vice-like grip. Billy, oh Billy, you haven't done anything wrong.

Please, Billy, don't wake up, she pleads, stumbling on the dirty cobbles, Mom's here, it'll be alright, sweetheart.

* * *

The van is not new, and the pony is not young, but it's the best they could have on a short notice. This must be the first time when Bill doesn't hate a pony on sight, too, 'cause he's just too distracted by getting everything else ready. Somebody walks with them for a while – must be another 'friend' of Bill's, he's always talking to suspicious folks – but when he leaves them alone and it's only the road, the van, and the moon…

The night drags on. She's in the van pretty fast – the baby is her first responsibility – but still she can't settle down for hours, listening and thinking and holding it all in.

Curse that man of hers, couldn't he have lived an honest life!

If only he wasn't so greedy. He simply can't have enough. Well she'll make sure he has enough on his hands from now on – it's time to make the world a better place for women. Yea, she'll have it out with him first thing in the morning.

(After she sees to the kid.)

And curse those Hobbits! Don't they have things to do right now? Like saving their economy by willpower and dedication?

(And burying their dead, and healing their wounded.)

And curse that bailiff! How much does he think he's worth? How much do they have left? It must have been a rip-off, they should have stayed for the court – she'd be their barrister herself!

(And what would she tell to Frodo Baggins? To Meriadoc Brandybuck? To Samwise Gamgee? To Peregrin Took? 'Sorry, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't change his mind'?)

And curse those guys for whom Bill worked! (Maybe still does.) Couldn't they leave him alone when he became a family man? Was it so hard to find another contact in this hole?

(Only Bill probably begged them to not give the job to someone else.)

And curse her own self, too, for being weak and stupid.

The van bumps on the road, and Billy stirs, and nothing else matters anymore.

* * *

It's the third night of their journey. She cannot sleep properly, and the draughts and the lack of privacy and the sheer uncertainty of their future make her ill. Which in turn makes the kid ill, and the man angry.

And Bill isn't pretty when he's angry. Well, he's not pretty period.

And now he stopped the pony, too.

'What is it?' she hisses. She doesn't know where they are going, and it doesn't matter much, at this point.

They need to avoid Rangers coming back to patrol, but for now they would be still occupied hunting down Orcs and such. Departing Elves might take an interest in them, too, if Bill wasn't as low-profile as he liked to pretend. Disturbingly, she has no idea if he ever went out of his way to piss off anyone in Bree (he probably did), but townsfolk _are_ pretty lazy, so that shouldn't be a serious problem.

Unless they all banded together. The Winning Party of Barliman Butterbur, Cirdan the Shipwright and Some Ranger or Another, out to bring one Bill Ferny to a short drop and a sudden stop.

…No, she really must take a hold of herself. What's keeping them so long?

'What are you doing there?' she asks in a low voice, but insistently.

'Hello, sweetie,' says the one who stands beside her very wanted husband. She can't see his face.

'Eh, we're stoppin' here, darlin',' says Bill.

The nerve of him! Can't he see the road is too narrow? What if another van comes – the turn there is too sharp for it to stop in time! The smell – it's like a Troll's hanky! There's no place on the roadside for a decent fire, unless they want to cut some undergrowth, and that would wake the baby! She's been rocking him to sleep for hours – does he want a turn?

'We just need to talk about – '

_This_ is what makes her explode. (Silently.) He never learns! He 'just needs to talk' to all kinds of –colorful characters (here the other one snickers and ducks from under her heavy hand), and look where it got them! No, they will stop further up, and if this man wants anything badly enough, he'll walk.

'Okay,' Bill mumbles. For some reason, he walks beside the pony, too. They speak in low voices; she catches '…good mood today', and decides that she doesn't care for this busybody at all.

Soon, the road widens to her liking, the trees grow rarer, and Billy is again slumbering in her arms. Her golden boy. He would never make such a ruckus about –

'Bill Ferny! _What_ have I told you about smoking?'

'Never do it where the babe can breathe it,' Bill says gloomily, as the other man coughs and sputters. 'It's not me, it's him.'

She explains to the offender the dangers of tobacco to young bodies (dumbing it down for Middle-Agers) until he starts putting in 'yes, ma'am' and 'sorry, ma'am' and even a bit after that. He'll think twice about coming near small children reeking of fumes.

And where did he learn to cook? Look at this hare – food isn't wood, it's not for burning!

'Leave him be,' Bill says at last. 'He's nae got no wife.'

Just then, it's time to feed Billy, and she has to comply. And then she falls asleep, because the fire is warm and the night grows late.

* * *

Bill doesn't wake her up, and it's nice to be able to sleep in for once. She takes a moment to stretch and check the kid.

_My, hubs looks positively downtrodden._

'Where's that awful man?' she asks, yawning.

'Gone,' Bill says sadly. His eyes are bleary and there are dark circles under them. The lines in his face seem deeper. He's grossly unshaven, too.

But there's no smell of alcohol. There are depths to which he would not sink.

'What was his name again?'

'One-eyed Joe.'

'Ugh.' Whatever sympathy she was feeling towards him quickly evaporates. 'And what did he want of you?'

Bill turns his head to squint at her. It's like he's having trouble thinking straight.

'The fella who met us in the wee hours o' the night… where the road is narrowest?'

'Yes, that one.'

'… an' ye can see just a few yards ahead of ye?'

'Yes.'

'… an' hid 'is face even when we all sat down to eat?'

'_Yes.'_ What's with him? How many men did they meet last night?

'Well I don't know, darlin'.' He blinks heavily. 'Might be he wanted to rob us clean, what with all of 'em lawful people out o' the way.'


	3. Chapter 3

They soon settle down in some really obscure little village, in the very last house - the very last wherever you count from.  
She doesn't care. It is infinitely better than living on the road. Bill doesn't sell the pony and doesn't let the van to fall into disrepair, so the danger isn't past, yet.  
But days go by. Nothing happens except that she would wake up in the morning thinking of what they could buy, how she should haggle, and what they would make themselves. And then she would realise how far she has gone from the helpless girl she's been.  
When they buy a cow, it's a milestone.  
But days go by. Billy grows fast - she sews mostly for him - and it seems to be forever autumn. Maybe it's because Elves are leaving Middle-Earth or whatever. A bit tiring, at times. She's got a few grey hairs but she leaves them be, there's nobody here to be vain for.  
Bill does leer at a young widow, Bessy, who's well-to-do enough to not remarry, but she doesn't make a fuss about that. She knows this world doesn't really accept her, and she shouldn't take risks. Bill and her have important matters to argue about, like how to raise the kid.

* * *

And then _bang!_, and Billy's fourth birthday is upon them.  
She is proud of him and sad for him. He's smart and laughs easily, a little sun with rapsberry juice in his hair and not a care in his head. Billy has lots of friends - other children, most of the adults (even Bill himself), beasts, stones, and flowers. He is the best thing that's ever happened to her.  
She puts the cake on the table and wipes her hands on her apron. She did her best - it should be good. Billy squeals in delight and dances - jumps and waves his arms around, and then flies to the door to welcome Dad home.  
'Hi, little one,' says Bill. 'I've got a present for you.'  
'Give it to me! Please! Please! Please!'  
Bill reaches into his pocket and takes out a knife, but holds it up yet. It's all new and small and he had to have been hiding it since the peddlar last came by.  
Billy whoops and cries and tries to tug Dad's arm down.  
'Wait, wait, I'll tell ye how to work with it!' Bill says laughing and catches a glimpse of her face. 'It's not sharp,' he says in passing.  
'I know,' she says, and her legs fold under her.

* * *

The next day, she stays in bed.  
She's unwell, and Bill takes the cow out himself, and Billy sits by her and brings her water and stuff, but he gets bored and cranky and she makes an effort and they go out into the yard for a picnic.  
It's much better in the yard. The sky is clouded, but it's warm outside and lots of flowers are still in bloom. When was the last time she went out like this?  
Billy grins at her, and the leaden feeling in her chest lessens.  
They eat and joke, and count crumbles. A dog bays nearby (they are getting Billy a dog for his Five Years), and two men appear on the road from the woods.  
No, not two Men. One is an Elf.  
She doesn't have time to say anything before Billy is running to them - he's absolutely headless when it comes to strange people and things. She levers herself up and limps forward... oh please don't let them do him harm...  
They greet Billy as an equal and don't touch him until she's near enough to brain them for it, and that is a very good sign.  
'Mom, Mom, let them eat with us!'  
She sighs, clutching at her side. The Elf takes a long look at her and says, 'We would like very much to share food with you, Madam.'  
And it's silly and dangerous, but the two have been hunting, successfully, and unsheduled meat is something she can't ignore. Billy is growing fast.  
They don't look like ruffians. Perhaps the Firstborn can't pull it off. Just two travellers, weary and dirty from walking... or riding, she corrects herself. She's no Sherlock Holmes at this kind of thing, but don't Elves prefer to ride than to walk?  
Oh yikes. A real Elf. Fair-haired, grey-eyed, merry and wise and ageless.  
'Welcome,' she says curtly, knowing she'll hear from Bill everything she's told herself about why it's a bad idea, and it's enough to make her son happy.

* * *

The two are polite and let her watch how they work. They teach Billy how to cook meat so that it can be divided into more dishes - the Man does, and she learns quite a few things herself - and how to offer an arm to a lady - this is the Elf's doing.  
And she tries to hide her sickness, and they don't mention it, but things get done before she can ask for them. She doesn't know whether to be flattered or offended, but this just feels so natural, this is simply -  
Mercy.  
And a wave of resentment rises up in her heart, because she knows this dark-haired, grey-eyed wagrant of a King and his lightfooted, twinkle-eyed Fellow of the Ring.  
Why haven't they found her before?  
When she lived in her own world, she would have given - well she was stupid - an ar... a finger to meet them. It would have been a miracle!  
When she's just fallen into Middle-Earth, it would still have been a miracle. A part of the Pattern, of Destiny.  
Now... it's only an implausible thing that happened to happen, and she doesn't really need their help, even though it's nice to have it.  
('I am Strider.'  
'And I am Leaper.'  
So they introduced themselves, and she lets them be. Her boy saves her from having to invent a surname by stating grandly, 'I am Billy and this is Mom.')  
She sets down two more plates and doesn't show that she knows them for who they are, because this might be Aragorn's kingdom, but it is her home.

After the dinner proper they have tea. (Strider thought he could smoke, the poor bloke.)  
They talk about the last War (Aragorn), and what grasses horses and cows like best (Legolas), and how a single pebble (Billy) thrown in the wrong moment (she) made the awful Mrs. Cramm howl and run around the market-place with eggs in her hair (Billy).  
('Eggs in her hair?'  
'It's a long story, Mom.')  
And because there's 'a living Elf' sitting at his side, Billy asks about magic.  
They wait for her to answer first, mischief and mirth dancing in their eyes.  
Oh cripes. What do you say to your kid about magic if you know for a fact that Rings of Power weren't just a bleeding plot device?  
'Well you know, Billy,' she begins carefully. 'Magic can be very different. It is not simply something that helps you do things.'  
He looks at her like he hasn't got an inkling what she means.  
'See, if you want to be good at smithing - very-very good, you should really be...'  
'A Dwarf,' says the Elf with surprising equanimity. Only Billy isn't surprised because he doesn't know History yet, and she isn't surprised because, duh, it's Legolas.  
'And if you want to breathe fire, you should be...'  
'A dragon!' Billy guesses at once.  
'I saw a man do it,' Aragorn says mildly. 'And he could swallow knives and juggle nine balls at once.'  
'Wow!' says the kid, wide-eyed, and shows that he can catch a cookie with his mouth.  
'Wow!' says the Prince of Mirkwood, wide-eyed, and shows that he can't.  
Men. Even if they are Elves.  
'And if you want to be kind, you just have to be...'  
Silence. Billy knows the answer, but he's suddenly shy, and she doesn't let her disappointment show.  
'Well, you'll figure it out someday,' Aragorn says and ruffles his hair just like Bill did the day before.  
And soon, the two go on their way. Just how it has to be.

* * *

Bill comes home, tired and in a dark mood, because the cow refused to carry the firewood he had been cutting all day.  
She doesn't want to tell him about their guests, but when he sniffs the stew, he forgives her everything.  
The sun sets, the stars go out. She is hit by sudden exhaustion. Billy comes to kiss her goodnight.  
'Billy?' she asks, holding him close.  
'What, Mom?'  
'Promise me... that whatever happens... wherever you are... you will be able to wonder.'  
'Mom?'  
'That you will believe in miracles.'  
'Sure!' says Billy. He's four. It's literally the least thing he can do for her. 'I'll do better, Mom, I promise!'  
Oh well, he'll understand it someday.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: after this chapter there'll be two more, I think. (I was definitely thinking of some Kipling story when I wrote this.)

She is not young.

Back home, people wouldn't yet say she's over the hill, but here, it's hills all the way down. That weariness which sometimes crushes her, when all she can do is gasp for breath even lying down, is never too far away. It's her heart; she recalls her own mother taking pills now and then, but there are no pills in Middle Earth.

Bill grumbles about more work falling into his lap when she has 'a wheezy turn'. Wuss. At least something of what he does can be called honest living. Lately, he's been away more nights than not, and there are rumours about a new gang on the road, with a leader who knows his way through the woods and through the hearts.

She tried to talk him out of it.

He beat her up, for the first and only time ever.

The noise woke the kid.

She surrendered at once and did not bring the thing up again. End of story.

Because it's Billy. He's eight, and although she could fight for a divorce, how would she feed them? Where would they live? (Whose side would he take?) And it's not that Bill and her have many arguments; compared to some families here, they are an exemplary union.

Billy is a good helper, by the way. When she's only moderately ill and can move around - slowly - he always lends a hand. They go to the well together, several times a day, stopping for her to catch her breath, and if there are people out, let them snort. She won't rush to her grave just to keep a cheery front. Also, it's nice to talk with her kid without milking, washing, cooking or digging at the same time, and Billy likes to share his thoughts with her.

* * *

Right now, as they pass the deaf old Mrs. Higgs sitting in the autumn sun - she nods in greeting, but there is nothing in return, just like always - Billy is weighing Good versus Evil. (The Songs about the war with Sauron have reached even their village and turned his little head.)

'Mom?'

He gets Good, but not the, uh, other side. Orcs, yes. Nazgul, any day. But when she tried to explain to him how some people behave unkindly to others, he drew a blank.

And she cannot explain it without feeling... insincere.

'Yes?'

'When will I get a sister?'

_Gotta love the direct approach._

'Billy...'

'Or a brother,' he grins up at her. 'You wanted to keep it secret?'

'Yeah,' she says weakly. What the - ?

'Well, maybe Dad forgot and told Mrs. Lynn, 'cause she told me, and Mrs. Bran heard and said ooh, really, and I thought you were ill 'cause you have a baby inside, but she said no, you know how she can - no-ho-ho...'

'Ah!'

She glares at Mrs. Bran and Mrs. Wimple who walk past with their baskets on their elbows, smiling at her so unbearably smugly, and Bill Ferny is one dead man.

'Mom?'

'Yes, Billy.'

'So, when?'

'I am not sure.' It has to be that flaxen-haired bi... witch, Bessy. That -

'Mom?'

'WHAT NOW?'

Billy jumps back, staring at her like she has grown another head, and she shuts her eyes.

'I am sorry. Go home. Tell Dad to prepare dinner.'

'He can't,' Billy reminds her, confused.

'He'll find that he can.'

Mrs. Higgs snores in her chair, and Billy keeps looking back at her every now and then, and she doesn't know what to do.

* * *

Sending Billy home by himself was a mistake. He run into some well-wishers who had no scruples about telling him exactly how things stood.

When she comes back - and it takes her a while to cool down - he is hiding in the shed, and Bill has left to the pub.

They sit together for hours, and Bill doesn't come back, but Billy stops crying and starts planning how he would play with the baby, and something can still be saved. At least, as long as she doesn't meet Bessy. Then, all bets are off.

* * *

Next morning, when she sets off to the well, it's a whole new world.

(Yesterday, when Mr. Bran hinted to Bill about Bessy and all, Bill shrugged, put an arm around the other man's shoulders and groaned, 'Live a month with my hag - ', and ordered a pint for every friend of his. Numerous were Bill Ferny's woes, and few were his joys, but that night, he had a brother in every household.)

'Stay - away - from my - son,' she growls at Mr. Lynn when he suggests to the boy that he should just wait a couple more years and seek a job somewhere 'what needed manpower'.

'But why?' asks Billy, staring at him with amazement.

'Eh, just a thought,' mumbles Lynn, glancing at her uneasily.

She fumes.

'Stuff that - nonsense - back - where it - came from - understood?'

'Outsiders,' Lynn mumbles softly, turning away, and that's a curse if she's ever heard one.

That's how it goes from then on. _Outsiders_. When applied to Bill it means 'huh', to Billy - 'will learn the proper ways in time', and to her - 'hopeless.'

Billy, her faithful champion, gets a taste of people being unkind to others, and _still _can't wrap his head around it.

And all the time, the days are getting shorter, and she sees shadows growing by inches when she looks at them out of the corner of her eye.

She meets Bessy. Nothing happens! They just walk past each other. She doesn't spit. Not that Bessy would blush, or Mrs. Higgs chivvy her - the old woman has not been out in a week, claiming 'bad weather' despite sunny days. Still, she's proud of herself.

* * *

And then, just as the first frosts silver the fallen leaves, just as the mutters and whispers die down a bit, just as the peddlar leaves -

there comes the Red Spot.

It is a kind of contagious illness, spread by touch. Adults lose movement in arms or legs, children die from fever. She calls the Professor an _outsider_ and stocks up for a month that the outbreak is expected to last, and just as she has Billy learn all things he can't do, Bill comes in and clears his throat.

So now he wants to talk? She sends Billy to his room, just in case.

'Bess, er... She doesn't have anybody right now.'

'Doesn't she?'

Bill glowers. 'It's my house, woman, I can just have her come over and - '

'And I can have her leave.'

He steps forward. 'You can't. You won't.'

She looks him in the eye, because watch it, gents, she so can.

And then she takes off her apron, and shakes her head resignedly.

'You are a worm and a half, Bill Ferny, but this one time, I will suffer her under my roof.'

It's strange, how he looks like he knows and agrees.

Bessy the Big Belly is installed in the 'masters' bedroom' before the sun sets.

Which means, coincidentally, that the lady of the house has no place to sleep. Even Bill himself has to take the floor. And besides, somebody has to tend to the cow and the chickens and to bring water.

It's warm in the shed. Only the nights are somewhat chilly.

And Bessy swore on her life not to hurt her golden boy.

* * *

People don't come to the well together, now, they try to keep to themselves. Still, she hears about the Brans. Their little Daisy was only just learning to talk...

She is unwell, and there is no water in the trough, and Billy is scooped inside with the others. The days are cold now, too. There is not much food to be had, with four mouths instead of three. That's life; she hopes Billy gets it this time.

* * *

The Red Spot takes eight lives and ruins ten more, but at last, no new people fall ill. Bessy moves back to her place, in a cart, since she is due any day now. Sorrow fades quietly, and even black lumps of cloth - the eldest of the village - come back out to sit on the frozen chairs and benches when the sun peeks through the snow-laden clouds. Billy runs around like mad, so glad to be let out, and maybe some women who had been mothers turn away from his whoops of happiness, but _she _doesn't care. Her boy is safe and sound, she saved him, and nothing else matters.

Not her heart.

Not her reputation.

Not her husband.

'Mom?' Billy asks, breathing at his hands as they join the growing queue - Mrs. Tinny certainly never hurries - and jumping up and down because he can.

'Yes?'

'How old is Mrs. Higgs?'

'I don't know, and you shouldn't ask. It's not polite.'

'Huh,' says Billy frowning. 'I just thought she was really old, 'cause she always just sits, she's sat there for ages, and now she stands up?'

'What?'

She turns around, and sure, the old woman is shuffling forward, leaning on her grand-niece's arm. They go straight to Billy and her.

'Good morning?' she says uncertainly, because heads are turning, and really, what is happening -

But Mrs. Higgs just grabs her by the shoulder and tugs forward, past Mrs. Lynn and Mrs. Wimple, and _orders _Mrs. Tinny to draw water for her and stop muddling around. Then, she limps back to her throne and smiles toothlessly at the gaping women.

_Out-siders_, Mrs. Ferny thinks wryly, nodding her thanks. _Just what we are._


	5. Chapter 5

It happens in the fall, one dreary but ordinary Tuesday. She works and thinks on what they need to prepare for the winter.

Things are as hard to get as ever, but, she thinks, at least the books are cheap since nobody here is fond of reading - and nobody brings them here. Except for Billy, of course. He probably has more than can be found in any three houses put together - maybe in all of the village - seven books total!

And she remembers how she had to whine or scold or trick Bill into getting every one of them - by mail, by favour. It took her weeks the first time. By now her husband is resigned to the strange idea, although he mantains that feather pillows are better for the neck.

The evening is dank and cold. Ragged clouds crawl from the West. She has finished for the night and goes out to the barn to call her men for dinner. It is odd - usually they are in much earlier. Perhaps there was more to do in the barn than Bill had thought.

Judging by the amount of pitchforks, old shoes, rotten planks and other necessities of life they have dug out of it, there is lots more to do. She turns back in disgust and goes for a candle to light her way.

Or perhaps they have not got to working, she thinks when she hears the raised voices. Men! She takes a minute to compose herself and strides up to the door with weary purpose. Curse that oaf; can't he see her boy wants to live cleanly...

'How can you do it?' her boy shouts. 'How can you do it - what have they done to you?'

'Nothin',' says her man easily.

'You rob them, Dad, you threaten them and take what you want -'

'Yeah. But we don't kill,' Bill Ferny adds in a low voice. 'We leave the unmarried to marry, and the married to repent. That's why they call me 'Let-them-suffer Bill', and why there ain't a price on my head.'

Yet, she thinks to herself.

'You still rob them,' Billy repeats. He's brave. He's fifteen. He's kissed a girl and will propose as soon as he's employed.

He's everything she's never been. She wills him to keep talking; her husband doesn't listen to her, but maybe, just maybe, he would this time.

'How do you think we bought the new pillow, kid?' grunts Bill. 'Your woolgathering doesn't put money in the pouch.'

'Then I will go away,' Billy says suddenly. 'I will go away, Dad, and you can't stop me.'

She wrenches the door open, not caring about upending the candle. Bill is half-lying on a bale of hay; he turns his head to look at her with exaggerated leisure. Billy is standing further away, almost outside the feeble light; he throws her one agonised glance -

'Dinner is growing cold,' she begins sternly.

And that is a wrong thing to say. Behind her boy, the darknes turns to greyness. She opens her mouth but finds no words - he notices it, too, and takes a step back - then suddenly, the wall just disappears, and she is blinded by a reflected glare of a midday sun, turned into a single shield of light higher than their house.

So much glass.

She stumbles away, but he doesn't. He stumbles forward.

Wait, she mouths, and no. What is happening? What is happening?

There are strange, gigantic signs above the glare - it is making her eyes water - ARNES &amp; NOB, and before she recognizes them as letters, English letters, she recognizes them as advertisement.

'What's that sound?' Bill sighs, annoyed.

'Wait!' she screams, but Billy doesn't wait. A moment, and he's gone. The barn is solid wood, again.

'What are you shrieking at, woman? We are coming, just give us a minute.'

The candle falls down from her grasp, and she has the presence of mind to stump it out. Then she falls sideways, because Billy won't return. Not ever. That world chose him and ate him, and left her to suffer.

'Where is he?' Bill asks, puzzled. 'Boy! Where did you go? Pull yourself together, wife, - I'd better look for the fool.' He grunts and lumbers off, and his gruff voice drifts away.

'You won't find him,' she whispers. Her heart feels shriven in her chest.

(A heart can be so old, Billy told her many years ago, that it can only go around with a stick and it hurts all the time. They give it medicine, and it has to sit down and rest its feet.)

Why?

He will meet all these bloody she-devils in skimpy skirts and with their boobs all on display! What they called...ah yes...emancipated women. Her Billy!

Gone forever.

He will look at men armed with small metal tubes with ugly handles - guns, yes, they were guns - and not be afraid, and maybe die for that.

(There was a little bird in the yard yesterday. It was dead. It's not there today. Another little bird buried it. It held the shovel with its beak.)

There will be all these strange things - drugs; it all came to her easier now - that people will offer him and he won't know to refuse.

(See, Mom, this is Daddy-flower, girl-flower, and Mommy-flower.)

He will find no job until he gets some of these...papers...and they are hard to get, aren't they? Thank heaven she taught him to read and write... but they write differently...

(I will do better, I promise!)

She hides her face in her hands and cries, lying there in the cold, and sometime later Bill comes back scowling like hell and says they will have to dredge the river in the morning.

They don't find a body.

Billy, of course, doesn't turn up tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or next month.

Bill and her don't talk.

People in the village do.

When he takes Bessy and her little daughter to live in the nearest town, she sells everything and goes into domestic service. Not because she has to - because there is a little boy running in that yard, with jam in his hair, and his heart doesn't have to sit down and rest its feet.


	6. Chapter 6

The wind bangs shutters against walls, tears at clothes, topples buckets brought to sit upon. Men and women frown and huddle, but do not leave. The rough noozle of the gallows swings like a plaything. The guards rub their hands together and stomp their feet.

Mrs. Ferny stands apart from the crowd, hardly feeling the chill. She is old, after all; she is cold all the time. This morning she will watch Bill die, and then go to the market for supplies, and perhaps to the ironmonger's for a new frying pan...

'They're coming, they're coming!'

People turn and point. Necks are strained for all that the wind has no mercy for naked skin. Somebody booes resignedly, and she can understand the disappointment. This is their villain? The one for whom they have left their snug homes on such a wonderful morning?.. They want Saruman the Base or Wormtongue the Back-stabber, not a white-topped, sniffling pest.  
Yet when the convinced man shuffles at last to his appointed place, they warm themselves up by waving their arms and throwing spoilt fruit at him, and she shakes her head and burrows deeper into her shawl. People don't change; fools are people, and so keep expecting people to change; the most foolish of them would have people change people. But this has all been decided so many years ago.

The guards very politely let everybody have a shot, then with a few lazy words and understanding snickers calm the indifferent violence. The bailiff reads the scroll of Bill's many crimes (and she doesn't listen to it, she doesn't have to listen to it), and looks up to the too-high noozle.

There's never been so many highwaymen in this town as to build a proper gibbet.

Bill and the executioner, a big lout with the face of a sleepy ox, follow the bailiff's stare.

'So...' says Bill hopefully. 'Let's put it off, eh?'

'Never you mind,' the executioner says, pursing his lips. 'I'll jus' have a cart here in a mo'.'

Bill's shoulders slump, and he sits down. One halberd turns to point at his head like a compass needle.

Mrs. Ferny steps forward, but so does everybody else. She cannot see him for the bodies press closely, and she is quite bent in her dotage, lower than most here, except for a bright-haired lad to the side. Others give him a berth, but she feels like she has a right to meet her husband's eyes on his last day, and hustles in to his side.

She squints and sees this one is a Hobbit, and of course it is only just.

The Hobbit, rather courteously, lets her sit on his bucket. He didn't join in the mutterings and throwing things, but he stares at it all like he wants to remember it forever more.

Bill is crying softly. It earns him scorn and exasperation, and Mrs. Ferny's silence.

Pretty quickly, a cart is brought there. The executioner scratches the pony's ears, prods Bill in the side and makes him climb up. Now the noozle is comfortably level with his chin.

'Last words?' the bailiff offers boredly.

'Lots,' says Bill. 'Er...'

He looks down upon the restless audience, and suddenly meets her eyes.

Meets them for the first time since Billy was taken from them.

'Why, if it isn't my mistress wife.'

Everybody turns to look at her.

'How could you do it?' asks the Hobbit. He's an adult, but in some way he's a kid to her now.

'Do what?' she wonders tolerantly. 'Make him a good man?'

She straightens up, leaning unto the bent wood of her stick, gnarled as her veins and thoughts. She's here for Bill. Bill and her don't need many words, even these many years apart.

'Oh no you don't, wifey!'

And he thrusts his head into the noozle (the bailiff puts a hand on the executioner's shoulder when he would have leapt forward) and puts two fingers to his mouth, and _whistles_.

The pony startles. The people gasp.

'Good, I couldna make him,' says the widow, watching her husband swing.

'Man, I have.'

_Epilogue_

When I wanted to find a girl to send to Middle-Earth, I turned to the obvious choice – the Fan Fiction Orphan home, because every being dropped into another world is severed from everything they used to know, and it is kinder to let them have as few initial ties as possible. The lady in the reception room was very kind and understanding.

'Do you have any specifications?'

'Mm,' I thought aloud. 'She doesn't have to be especially kind, you know, or pretty, or brave. Something average would do just fine.'

She kept nodding, and her face cleared gradually.

'We have someone you might want to look at. Not too bright...'

'…that's okay...'

'...isn't into sports...'

'...fine, fine...'

'...a bit wide in the shoulders.'

I waved it off. 'It's all right. She'll have been an Eowyn.'

The lady hesitated.

'This wide.'

'Oh. Well. She'll have been an Eowyn twice!'


End file.
